


the writing’s on the wall

by nqkedbooths



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: 2009 through to 2017ish, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Reality, TW:, implicit smut, implied depression, one implication of self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 10:32:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12703173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nqkedbooths/pseuds/nqkedbooths
Summary: Sometimes he likes to draw.Well, not drawing per se, just little doodles in the condensation on the glassy shower walls. A way to vent his frustrations or recreate a fond memory, a way to leave a kind of mark.





	the writing’s on the wall

**Author's Note:**

> I’m just gonna be straight-up and admit that I have no fucking clue what this writing style is but you’re getting it anyway cus I miss writing but lately I’ve had neither the time nor the energy to do so (thanks, work and depression!)
> 
> also I might add that this fic was only proof-read like once when I was half-asleep on a plane so if there are any errors, I apologise in advance
> 
> title from Writing’s On The Wall by Sam Smith (rocket science, eh?)
> 
> I hope you enjoy this mess of a fic, it’s something I wanted to write for a while

Sometimes he likes to draw.

Well, not drawing per se, just little doodles in the condensation on the glassy shower walls. A way to vent his frustrations or recreate a fond memory, a way to leave a kind of mark other than that which leads to pain and rivers of red.

Right now he is drawing two stick figures — one with a long fringe, the other with luscious locks flowing past the shoulders. Their faces are troubled, two simple horizontal lines each laying beneath a pair of dots. A larger, zig-zagged dotted line separates them.

This is the limit of the boy’s artistic abilities, but it’s enough to tell a story.

—

The next time he takes a long shower, he draws again. The same scene unfolds as he drags his finger across the glass: two stick figures, a boy and a girl, with a line in-between.

And yet, and yet it’s not the same scene.

The line in-between can no longer be described as dotted, for the dots have merged together to form small zig-zagging lines. The overall line looks more solid, if not more formidable.

It also cannot be the same scene as a third stick figure has been drawn, similar in appearance to the one it’s adjacent to but its fringe in the opposite direction. This third stick figure seems content, and after some adjustments are made to such a mural, so does its friend.

—

He draws the same scene again not a few weeks later, and yet he doesn’t.

The line is now completely solid - it would resemble a wall, but walls are built for protection, and what is there to be protected from if where once was a girl, is now an empty pit? The water dripping down the glass panels resemble the tears rolling down the boy’s face as he drags his hand over the figure of the girl, erasing any evidence of previous markings and just leaving a blank but un-drawable patch.

What is also different is the second boy. He is standing closer to the first, a small smile partially hidden by his absurdly lengthy fringe. His handless, elbow-less arm is connected to the shoulder of the first, on whose face is an expression as dismal as the artist’s.

It’s not a happy sight, but it’s not all doom and gloom either.

—

He doesn’t draw again for a while, but one night after a hasty wash he writes one word:  
  
_tomorrow_

—

He takes a shower merely two nights later, only not alone and in a bathroom over three hundred miles north.

He doesn’t write anything - being ravaged doesn’t exactly leave much time or energy for artistic expression.

No way in hell does he regret it though. He would never even approach a shower again if it meant he could be treasured and wanted this passionately, this devotedly, for the rest of his life.

Besides, the two bodies pressing against each other leave enough marks on the walls and on each other to tell a story.

—

His finger guides itself yet again over the glass of another foreign shower in another foreign bathroom, however this time they are definitively foreign and not just metaphorically. He’s at the other end of the world, for fuck’s sake.

He draws someone, only not a stick figure. It’s the recreation of a mental image, a moment in time captured perfectly within his memory and now being brought to life on a solid surface.

It’s an all-too-familiar face— actually, no. It’s a familiar face, but never one he’d consider himself to be too familiar with. He could never get bored of this face.

A dark fringe facing the left, a shy but open expression, two hands moulding together to form a heart. A rectangle surrounding all this, and the phrase _happy valentine’s day_ written underneath.

His fingers are buzzing in the best and worst way possible — the best, knowing that he is loved by someone whom he loves too; the worst, equally knowing that he needs to be back in England. He can’t be here, not when this has happened.

He knows all too well how eternal a few days can feel, so doodles like these will have to sate him for now.

—

For many a month his doodles vary little, normally just the recurring pair of stick figures or an astronomically large pile of books and folders. The facial expressions of said figures change slightly each time, but under most circumstances they depict the second boy trying to comfort the first, sadder one with a small smile or a hug.

It’s probably around the summer of one year later when the figures start to change. Instead, it’s just frowning or morose expressions. No bodies, no other facial features, hell, there aren’t even any other faces, just one downward parabola with two accompanying dots. Alone, plain, lacking effort.

It’s not like the artist has less time to shower, it’s just that he spends less time creating — most of his time is spent standing alone, the steady water droplets raining down on his back and turning him numb. Sometimes his tears accompany them.

More often than not he needs another to pull him up and out.

He hopes it will get better, and he’ll take drastic measures if need be. They both will.

—

Drastic measures are eventually taken, to little avail.

The sad faces get sadder, as does their creator. Foreign faces begin to appear, seemingly thousands of them, forcing the lonely parabolas into spotlights they wish to not be in. The audience is taunting, judgemental, sneering at any attempts taken to escape.

The artist still needs to be rescued from his booth, only he wishes to escape from his mind too.

Trapped. That’s what he is.

—

But.

But when he’s rescued, a second, more hopeful face appears to his hopeless one. It’s not his, but it belongs to someone who is.

The message is simple, but clear: you aren’t alone.

—

The stick figures return, and with them come new and exciting stories and scenarios: advanced booths with pairs of headphones; miniature human models resembling those of the Oscars and plaques; books, but not the mundane, heavy ones from years before; a stage, alive with energy and music and hope.

Best of all, the smiles come back too. The continuous mutual support of the two figures. The community, the love; the occasional arguments, the apologies that follow; the secrecy, or increasing lack of.

A lot returns and grows, but especially the smiles.

—

Perhaps his most detailed piece since the freeze-frame of half a decade prior is a ring.

He takes time with the specifics, outlining the three-dimensional angles and the gems ingrained into its exterior.

It’s not expected — only the night before, a giant version of the number thirty had been depicted on the misted glass, surrounded by the gentle faces of familiar loved ones, and some candles assorted on top of a layered baked good. No hints of the arrival of such an esteemed symbol had been present.

But, considering everything, to say it’s a complete surprise wouldn’t be accurate either.

—

He’s half-asleep.

No, not his would-be figure representation, his actual self. It’s not surprising, not when he’s being held so soundly but gently under the warm torrents from above. His eyes are closed as he lets himself be coddled, feels slender fingers in his hair, hums contently from the ministrations.

He could reach his arms out, tell a new story if he wanted to, but no. Nothing needs to be said, for he is happy as things are.

But still. Just for good measure, he draws a large and bold smiley face. He is the happiest he’s ever felt, to hell with not acknowledging that somehow.

And if minutes later, when they stand side by side drying themselves off, the first boy spots another smiley face that he definitely did not draw himself, adjacent to his own...

He says nothing, but knowing smiles are exchanged.

He doesn’t need to produce or express to perfection or depth to tell their story. Neither of them do.

 

**Author's Note:**

> do I get extra brownie points for not mentioning either of their names throughout the entire fic?
> 
> if it sucks please tell me, I beg of you, I need to know what’s good and what’s not so I can improve and provide better stuff in the future
> 
> if you wanna get i n t i m a t e y a k n o w < ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) > my twitter is [@quietsymphonies](https://twitter.com/quietsymphonies), where I mostly tweet sporadically about DnP, rant about drama and retweet anti-Trump stuff ya know
> 
> I haven’t given up on my chaptered fic, not by a long shot — my next upload will be an update of that!! 
> 
> okay but seriously I do hope you enjoyed this in some way or another, thank you for taking the time to read it <3


End file.
